The Phantom's Opera
by The Phantom's Pirate
Summary: A young woman is working as a maid to a famous author the night of his death. She alone will learn the truth about The Phantom's Opera. Newly updated. Oct 18
1. Prologue

_**The Phantom's Opera**_

AN: This is a story basically about the last night of Gaston Leroux's life. In theory, how the novel The Phantom of the Opera came about. His own little "correspondences" with Erik. There are going to be a few things that you might not understand for those who aren't familiar with French culture or language.

Oui- pronounced like "wee" means yes.

Monsieur- Mr. or Sir – abbreviation: M

Madame- Mrs. or ma'am – abbreviation: Mme

Mademoiselle- Miss. Or Ms – abbreviation: mlle

Foyer- pronounced "foy (sounds like boy) -yay" an entrance hall to the home.

Mon-my

Ange-Angel. sounds like "_ANG_ela"

That is all you need to know for this current chapter. This is told from a mixture of the original Gaston Leroux novel, the 2004 motion picture, and a small hint at Susan Kay's PHANTOM in a few places.

I am using a bit of a "Titanic" way of narration. This tale is being told from the perspective a made in Leroux's home obviously. This woman is now old and on her death bed.

Disclaimer: I do not own any of the characters in the phantom of the opera, the rights to the novel, screen play, Andrew Lloyd Webber's lyrics or musical.

_**Prologue**_

_April 15th, 1987_

_London, England_

_The Last Words of Mme Suzette le Charon_

_To be delivered to: Mlle Alexandria le Charon and M Erik le Charon_

It was 1927. I was a maid serving a rather famous author in my native France. Most have heard of him; however, I'm sure there are plenty that haven't. I was only 20 years old and supporting my sick mother and over-worked father on a servant's salary. In the middle of a large storm in the city of Nice, not far from Paris, I was working for whom we shall refer to as "The Employer" until a later time. He was very ill, dieing in fact, the doctors has said it was due an acute urinary infection. He would not last the week and he knew it just as well as I. The night of his death was the night of one of the strongest spring storms to hit Nice in a long time. It was late, the rain was pouring, the thunder rolling, and the clouds dangerously shaped in the sky. I was the only servant who dared, much less cared enough to brave leaving for work that night. He lie in his bed, weak and pale, yet his eyes held a flame brighter than the sun. The previous night's events were involved, I knew for certain. Yet I wouldn't find the accurate reason behind it, not until later that night.

The night before, at approximately half past nine, the doorbell rang through the large foyer of the Parisian style home. There were two older, American gentlemen at the entrance asking to speak to The Employer. I told them politely that the man was very ill and not in any condition to see guests. They explained rather persistently that it was an important matter concerning one of his numerous works. I allowed them in wearily, announced their presence to Monsieur, and after allowing them entrance into his bedroom I closed the door quietly. A few words reached my ears, for I was vaguely listening, and I smiled, and I knew the man would be delighted.

The men were coming from California, in the United States, asking The Employer's permission to base a silent movie on one of his books. The publication in question he had been printed about 16 years before this coming winter. Wasn't specifically popular, but I had noticed in the short time I worked for him, it was his own personal favorite. That is when I noticed that, though the man's voice was full of excitement, it was also hinting, more so laced with a strong reminiscence of fear. The fright in the gravely Parisian accent was heavy, almost to the point it sounded as though he was weighted down by it. It struck me as vaguely odd, however I dismissed it, thankfully. For what happened next beat down the boundaries of "vaguely odd".

As the men left the room, satisfied smirks lingering on their faces, I saw them to the door. Instinctively, I went back to check on my employer. He looked almost unconscious, yet his eyes wide and glazed over, as he stared off into nothingness. He had a sense of contentment about him, yet he still looked stiffened by an unseen force of tension. Sweat trickled barely noticed from his forehead to his rounded cheeks. He suddenly spoke, no, almost sang out the words to me, "Go now child. . . Go now and leave me!" The voice was not his own. It was unfamiliar, gruff, frightened, entranced, and obliviously musical all at once. He then looked towards me, seeing my almost glazed stare towards him, and sighed, continuing to look at me, yet with something that vaguely hinted at pity. That is when he asked me.

He looked yet again spaced off and asked me, "Get your coat, mademoiselle, will you run an errand?" I looked almost stunned, with no good reason mind you, and said, "But monsieur, you're ill. You should not be here alone. And with the storm it would surely take me all night". He looked at me fiercely, the intensity in his eyes weakening as he repeated, his voice stronger and almost commanding, "Will you run an errand?" I let out a sigh of defeat, and answered, "Oui, monsieur. Where shall I go?" The old Frenchman coughed as he began lifting himself off his pillows, raising his hand in defiance as I began moving to help him. Leaning towards his bedside table, poorly attempting to hide his difficulty in doing so, he opened a nearly invisible hinged cabinet. Within it, I only slightly glimpsed at the many papers and discarded quills, pens, ink wells, and many other writing necessities. However, he reached behind the jumble, for a small wooden box. He opened it and clasped the contents in his trembling fist.

He began coughing again as he beckoned me to his bedside. I leaned in towards him, but he stopped me with a single finger in the air, elegantly tilting his head side to side in refusal. He took my hand gently in his own, opening it, palm up with articulate precision, and placed a plain gold ring, seemingly a wedding band, in the center of it, before delicately closing my fingers over it in a fist. "I want you to take this, mon ange. Take it to the cemetery. Walk to the far north gates, and there you will find a plain grave, with nothing upon it but the engraving of a mask and the name ERIK. Bury this ring in the earth beside the grave, one or two inches down. You do this child and I will double this week's pay." With every word he said his eyes grew distressed, and he looked frightened still, his voice by the end of it had once again taken the eerie tone that he had used earlier. I didn't hinder on the thought, for the only thing that I had in my mind was the doubling of my wages. I did have to support my entire family, for I was the only thing keeping them from starvation. The strangeness of the task was no longer an issue within my mind…for I when I finally thought to consider I was already at the cemetery. Yet even then, the purpose didn't register. I finally found out the truth the next night I was one of the only 3 people to ever know it and by the morning the only left living. For the next night was the last night of The Employer's life.


	2. Chapter 1: The Secret of the Ghost

_**The Phantom's Opera**_

AN: I'm sorry for the time period between updates. I've been really busy with school and stupid things like unwilling babysitting. Thanks for all the reviews, means a lot. I think this is the only story I've ever made an effort to finish. There are a few more French terms to point out before I begin.

Nice: This was mentioned in the last chapter. Pronounced like "niece". It's a city in France like before mentioned.

Monsieur: Already mentioned but means Mr. or Sir. Abbreviation-M

Mademoiselle: Already mentioned but means Ms or Miss. Abbreviation-Mlle

Francs: French currency. They now use the Euro, however you will see an amount 500 francs which in American money is around $90.00. However, most likely meant a bit more in the 1920s than it does now.

Hier: Yesterday

Oui: also already mentioned. Sounds like "wee". It means: yes

Si'l vous plait: Please or If You Please

Ange: Angel

Bal Du Masque: Another name for a Masquerade Ball

Non: No

Mon: My

Belle: Beauty

I have decided to add a bit more Susan Kay to my writing, but you won't necessarily notice it yet. I have to make the first few chapters pretty short.

Disclaimer: See previous chapter.

_**Chapter 1: The Secret of the Ghost**_

The next evening, the storm was worse, much worse. I fear, yet again, I was the only servant reporting to the employer for yet another night. If you ask me why, quite obviously I needed the money. It was the end of the week, and if Monsieur kept to his word, I would be getting double my normal salary. This would give me at least a decent 500 Francs, which would support my family a lot better than with the usual 250. Of course I had to come that night, and as I soon realized, if I hadn't my life would never have meaning. The only meaning my life has had is from that single night, that last night with that secluded author that torched my very soul with the tale of a man that was absolutely perfect, or could have been, without the sadness and despair that destroyed him.

This was, in fact, the very night in question. This was the last night that my employer lived; and I would say, the first I myself began to. As I reported to check in on The Employer in his darkened bed chamber, there was a very strong look of fear over coming his features; even more so than the night before. It not only weighted him down but it seemed to completely control his every function. He looked discontented, worried, horrified, and yet strangely entranced in his own thoughts. That is the moment that stormy night became the night that would haunt my thoughts for eternity.

As I walked to his bedside table to refill his cup of tea, he suddenly took my arm in a death grip. I let out a gasp, but it didn't hurt me, nor do I believe he intended any harm, but it was a direct call for my full attention. It was an urgent call for my full attention. He looked me straight in the eye, those chocolate eyes bearing into mine and asked with, disturbingly serious, "Mademoiselle", he paused slightly, "Do you wish to know of the errand you ran on my behalf hier?" I looked at him, almost shocked for a moment, but nodded my head and said in slight hesitation, "Oui, monsieur. If…if you wish to tell me." He motioned directly to the chair in the corner a few feet away, and said in a mutter, "You will need to sit down". I moved to the chair over without question, stood in front of it with no move to sit just yet and said quietly, "you're…going to explain then?" He gave a grave nod, and replied, "I'm afraid that I must, child. I have kept many a secret all my life long, but there is only one and one alone that will haunt me to my grave".

As I finally sat down slowly, my back to the fireplace, facing his left bedside as he continued speaking. "I am dieing. I am not so daft that I cannot see or know it. I am dieing 'fore the clock strikes twelve noon tomorrow. I know that much. I know it just as well as you know your mother's face or your father's voice. You, mon ange, are going to carry a burden, a very large one. This burden, this parcel to carry upon your back like Atlas himself holds the earth, is the truth, belle, the truth is the greatest burden of all. And by noon tomorrow, you and you alone will know it. Can you bear it ange? Can you!" the insistency and violence expelled from those last words was so strong it caused me to jump slightly, but deafly I nodded and sank back into the crimson chair. I sank back into that large crimson chair and he began his tale.

"I am going to tell you a secret, my lady, a very large secret. I am going to tell you how the legend of the phantom of the Paris opera came about in all detail. I did not invent the tale, no certainly not. It had been meandering throughout the Paris upper class for over a decade when I came across it. I was barely sixteen, not even a writer yet, but with aspirations of being such. It was 1884 and it would be another five years before I even received a degree. The P'lace De L'Opera Garnier was fluttering with activity. As theatres stand the p'lace was still considered vaguely new, having barely finished completion nine years before, and the management were in a great scurry in planning a grand Bal Du Masque for the New Year Eve which was not but a fortnight away. I was in town, studying, for the next six months, in hopes of learning a few things, finding some sort of boyish inspiration. By God, I certainly did. From the very moment I arrived I heard gossip of the Paris opera house. I heard of the previous theatre that stood where the Opera Garnier did now. That such a place was burnt down by unknown causes in 1873, but no one would speak it's name. Not a soul spoke the name of the old opera. It was as if the name itself was cursed and so was anyone that dared utter it from their lips."

"By this new upper class era, the infamous opera ghost was thought of as nothing but a legend, even by those who had witnessed his many horrible deeds with their own eyes. A legend such as Scheherazade and The thousand and one tales of the Arabian nights was the formerly known phantom of the opera and his Punjab lasso of death. As was the angel of music and his disappearance from the lives of the people of the opera forever and yet his name was still used, but as fiction. He was as good as fictional, for the entire population of Paris was in denial of his existence. Everyone seemed to have completely banished him from their minds as if the years he spent in their wake were not but a frightful, mystical dream. Ah but no. He was always real, mademoiselle, oh yes. He was always real and always watching. You have read my own version of the tale, non?" he enquired mysteriously. I nodded, almost entranced by the story, yet that was not it at all. It was not the story, I would soon learn, but the man behind it. Oh yes the man that knew himself as nothing but an ugly beast was the most entrancing human being I had ever heard of outside of a storybook, but that you won't figure out yet.

The employer gave an unfathomable smile and said in a lower voice, "There are many things in that book which are not true. Forget all you know of dear Erik, right at this very moment, erase whatever you think you know about him from your mind. Destroy every exquisite inkling of generalization and listen only to the tale I weave. The one thing I have wanted since childhood is to be able to explain every detail of this very story, honest detail. Now, the tale of Erik; God rest his soul, can finally be uttered with all the respect it deserves. It can now finally be uttered from mortal lips." I looked at him in spellbound silence, my breath catching in my throat and I myself still do not know why. I nodded in acknowledgement, letting him know that I was listening so that he may go on. I must admit, I felt more like an expectant five year old than the young woman I was, but at the moment it made no difference. It only mattered that I was to be hearing a story that I had personally wondered about a good portion of my life. That is when he continued once more.

"It became apparent rather quickly that I was beginning a dangerous obsession with tale of the Opera ghost that had plagued the Paris upper class nigh on eleven years before. One night, as I had begun doing as a rather bad habit, attended a gala performance at the opera house. I had begun, as said, lurking about the P'lace as much as humanly possible and was going near broke because of it. This was when I took up another bad habit, gambling, but that is of no matter to the story. It was that certain day, in the top box, box five to be exact, that I overheard a certain conversation. It was a conversation concerning the current production, Faust, and the last time it was performed in Paris. It hadn't ever been performed in this theatre, only the previous one, and it was the very production that the so called 'phantom of the opera' had struck with a vengeance. It was at that moment, that I heard the first silent musings of the name Christine Daae."

AN: and that is the first chapter. Read and Review Si'l Vous Plait. Constructive criticism is appreciated, just don't flame me.


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